


i have my beauty—you your art

by skateboardachoo



Series: you're in a car with a beautiful boy [1]
Category: SEVENTEEN (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Car Sex, M/M, Porn with Feelings, Shotgunning, Topping from the Bottom, art heaux porn, extremely slight dom/sub undertones if ur squinting, joshua hong's grinder with naruto printed on it, suspend your disbelief regarding car sex logistics, tender horny
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-03
Updated: 2020-07-03
Packaged: 2021-03-04 21:40:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25043275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skateboardachoo/pseuds/skateboardachoo
Summary: It might be the weed, it might be the sun, but Minghao swears he sees Joshua’s eyes blow out, only a ring of burnt umber left, and Joshua sinks his full weight down on top of Minghao with a breathyohand parts his lips, unfurling like peonies again, and let’s Minghao bend his thumb into the wet heat of Joshua’s mouth.
Relationships: Hong Jisoo | Joshua/Xu Ming Hao | The8
Series: you're in a car with a beautiful boy [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1813789
Comments: 28
Kudos: 136





	i have my beauty—you your art

**Author's Note:**

> so the henggarae jeep photoshoot gave me really bad brainworms, just absolutely terminal haoshua jeep sex brainworms. it was just supposed to be jeep fuckin and it turned into this.
> 
> thank you so much to all of my friends who held my hand along the way and left lovely comments in my google doc and dealt with me barraging them with screenshots and clips of my wip for a week. a very special thank you to my friend [preciouslittletime](https://archiveofourown.org/users/preciouslittletime) for betaing all this!
> 
> if my fic is the desert sun, [funfetti, i'm ready](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25039501) by [pixiepower](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pixiepower) is the moon above the sea, partner fics in these brainworms

It’s easy saying yes to Joshua. It’s shockingly easy to let himself get pulled away from the unframed canvas on the floor of his studio. There’s a simple iced-coffee cool hand cupped in the crook of his sweat-tacky elbow tugging him up from between paint cans and enamel and that’s enough to convince him. 

“You need to stop pretending you’re Pollock, man. You know, with the canvas on the floor thing.” Minghao sniffs at that. He could argue with Joshua about being compared to an alcoholic who ruined his wife’s career, but lets it slide. Just this once. He’s too wound up and stressed from the impending deadline of the gallery opening to argue abstract expressionists and he would like to remain in Jeonghan’s good graces for as long as possible. Mostly because he respects Jeonghan, but also because he’s the one who decides the fate of his artist residency here in this lofty studio space, albeit with unreliable air conditioning, in Silver Lake.

“Let’s go for a drive,” Joshua says, easy, narrowing his eyes though, seeing through Minghao and whatever excuse he has on his tongue. He takes a pointed sip from his iced coffee, not letting his gaze falter, and holds out a larger sized one for Minghao.

Minghao tries to stare back in silent competition but loses swiftly with a flick of his eyes down to Joshua’s pretty mouth nibbling on his straw. It quirks up into a smirk and Minghao staves off a bone-deep blush and a twinge of shame at being caught Cadmium red-handed to match the whorls of red-mixed enamel on the canvas. 

“Sure,” he replies, easy. Joshua plonks himself up on top of one of the many creaky folding tables Minghao has in his studio, takes another long sip from his iced coffee, and cocks his head to watch Minghao bend to close paint cans and wash out brushes. Another long sip punctuates the silence when Minghao stretches out to heft up a paint can. He feels his ratty white tee dip low, the air from the oscillating fan passing through it and lingering cool on his chest.

Minghao twists around and raises an eyebrow.

“Got something to say?”

“Hm, nope. Just enjoying the view,” Joshua says, plainly and objectively, a casual spectator appreciating a sculpture in a gallery space. 

☀︎

They drive past Los Angeles county limits, skyscrapers of downtown fading away until it’s all rust-brown hills and ashy green dappling the vista. Minghao didn’t bother asking where Joshua was taking him, just shrugged on his cardigan and adjusted the red bandana tied around his neck and let Joshua plug his phone into the AUX. It’s something so quintessentially SoCal high school and Minghao ignores the urge to look at Joshua’s fingers tap in time with the crashing piano chords hammering through the sound system.

It’s nice though, being shown the taco trucks and the hole in the wall bubble tea places and the desert by a real Angeleno. Minghao feels less like a misplaced alien even when English feels uncomfortable and unwieldy on his tongue and the desert might as well be Mars with Joshua here.

But, Minghao’s not an idiot. He knows there’s something going on between them. Joshua has one end of the wishbone and he has the other and months of gifted coffee, fingertips grazing knuckles gripped over wide paint brushes, and the purposeful meeting of eyes across gallery functions has the bone at its breaking point, the crackle before the fissure.

Minghao succumbs, though, into looking like he always wants to, like the ebb and flow of the tide at the whim of the moon’s rotation, to drinking in the sight of the slope of Joshua’s nose, the cut of his jaw, head tilted back easy and casual having driven down this stretch of highway dozens of times and singing along under his breath, eyes hidden by brand-name Ray-Bans. It’s one thing to look knowing there’s a gaze to match and challenge his, two fencers standing en garde, but an entire other thing when it’s a stolen glance across the center console of a car. 

An hour filled with wondering whether or not Joshua’s looking over to see out of the side mirror or if he’s taking in tiny sips of Minghao goes by and then finally Joshua pulls them off into a small outlook area, tiny placard about local fauna and all, and puts his Jeep in park. He lifts his arms, toned Minghao regretfully notices, up over his head, languid and long lines like a cat waking up from its nap. Minghao hears Jun in his head yelling at him “Yah! Stop being a cliche, didi,” when he unabashedly stares at the tan skin peeking out from above Joshua’s jeans. He wants to lick it, see if it tastes like maple, coax moans out from the back of Joshua’s throat.

“You need to relax,” Joshua says, easy, yet again, pulling out an old Christmas cookie tin.

And Joshua is right, he does need to relax. Jeonghan is wringing him out, getting every last bit out of him, but only because he knows Minghao has the talent and drive to go further with his work. This is his first gallery opening in America with his name on the program, the highlight of the evening rather than the second to last name on the gallery flyer. 

Joshua swings out of the driver’s seat and gestures Minghao to do the same and follows him into the backseat after he pushes the front seats forward.

Joshua prys open the cookie tin and it’s filled with smaller tins, Altoids Sours and Smints, with wrapping papers and weed in them and two grinders with Naruto and Sasuke printed on them, a silver Zippo, and a tube of lube. Minghao snorts at the winking and thumbs upping Naruto and a tube of lube. Doesn’t matter if Joshua planned this from the start or if he has his own personal business to attend to, it’s still funny. He angles his head to look out the passenger seat window, taking in the oranges and ochres and sage greens, pretending the image of Joshua sweat sheened and chest heaving, lazily stroking his dick doesn’t pop into his head.

“You’ve smoked before right?” Joshua asks, confident and nimble fingers going through the motions of portioning out buds of weed, grinding it, and wrapping it into a joint with finesse and poise.

“Yeah, but back home if it’s any good you might as well have to take out a small loan for it,” Minghao replies, remembering his art school days of him, Junhui, and Yibo saving up all their part-time job money for a semester to afford one measly gram and smoking it in secret with fans blowing and windows open in their apartment bathroom chasing a well-deserved high after a long critique period.

“Well then, let’s make this a good time,” Joshua says, meeting Minghao’s eyes, joint already in his mouth. He curls his hand around to light it with a flick of the Zippo, puffs once, twice, and then blue-grey smoke is spilling out of his pretty mouth, a bush fire burning through wildflowers.

Minghao wants to paint his mouth. 

He holds the joint out to Minghao and Minghao takes it, holds Joshua’s gaze as their fingers brush and breathes in deep, follows Joshua’s eyes taking in the sight of his mouth. Purposefully licks his lips after all the smoke leaves his lungs. 

They pass the joint back and forth, thieves trading secrets in the night, sun beating down on them. They fall deeper and deeper in to their-bone deep high, gradually pulling closer and closer together until thighs are pressed against thighs and Joshua asks if he’s ever shotgunned before. They didn’t teach Minghao weed slang in school, he says. 

“Let me show you how.”

It’s stupid, really, for how easy it is for Minghao to let Joshua settle in his lap in the backseat of Joshua’s red Jeep, stripped down to just the frame and backdoors for the summer and how easy it is to let Joshua lean in, long fingers tangled loosely in the hair hanging over his nape. 

It’s so easy to part his mouth with a shallow gasp at the gentle but firm tug to his hair and let Joshua ghost his petal-pink lips over his and press hazy smoke into his mouth, rolling over his tongue and breathing it down. Easy as the poppy orange sun setting, casting shadows over Joshua’s parted lips, pretty like a peony. 

It’s not easy to pull away from Joshua’s sway and rest his head against the backseat window, but his head is too heavy, full of cotton and weed, and it lolls to the side and Joshua’s gaze is intense and marble, almost heady on him and the long Doric column of his neck. He should feel guilty reveling in Joshua looking at him like this, heavy lidded and foggy, like all reality would shift away if Minghao wasn’t underneath him, sun warm and loose-limbed. This must be how David felt when Michelangelo freed him from his marble tomb. 

Joshua’s breezy short-sleeve button up slips off his shoulder as he takes another lazy drag from the joint between his fingers, eyes never leaving Minghao’s face even though all Minghao can do focus on his gold ochre skin and ache to make a mess out of the hollows of his clavicles, drag his fingers through Prussian blue and paint Joshua dark blue. 

“Do you want more?” Joshua asks through the smoke spilling out from his mouth. He’s talking about the cherry-red joint burning daintily between his fingers, but Minghao wants more, more, more, of just Joshua and to watch his pretty, pretty eyes shut if Minghao were to press clementine sweet kisses and bite pith bitter bruises along the angles of his collarbones. Desperate to leave proof that he was here, once, beneath Joshua in the desert heat, proof like the lipstick kisses on Wilde’s grave, devotion and worship intertwined intimately. 

“Anything that you’ll give me,” he says, low and rough and a hair too close to the truth. 

Joshua’s eyes crinkle when the perfect bow curve of his upper lip is pulled taut in a smile and when he huffs a small laugh, Minghao finally understands why Americans call it the Cupid’s bow. Minghao’s synapses aren’t firing correctly, his nervous system disobeying, and he lifts up his hand and traces the sharp curvilinear outline of Joshua’s lips with the pad of his thumb. There’s nothing smudgy about his lips, no Impressionist brushwork, but, god, Minghao wants to blur his edges and make them all bitten pink. 

It might be the weed, it might be the sun, but Minghao swears he sees Joshua’s eyes blow out, only a ring of burnt umber left, and Joshua sinks his full weight down on top of Minghao with a breathy _oh_ and parts his lips, unfurling like peonies again, and let’s Minghao bend his thumb into wet heat of Joshua’s mouth. 

It’s a lot, Minghao knows it’s a lot but he expects Joshua to suck on his thumb rather than letting Minghao drag his bottom lip down, all spit thick and lazy. Breath stuck in his throat, he swipes his thumb back up higher, grazing Joshua’s upper lip once again, and letting Joshua do whatever he wants. Easy. Like it’s so fucking easy. 

And this time Joshua teases his thumb back in, tongue curling against the whorl of his fingerprint, eyes blown out and glazy. Piano chords hammer again from the speakers that Joshua hasn’t bothered to turn down the volume to and Minghao is desperate to crash his mouth against Joshua’s, open and close and press and nibble in time with the music. 

Joshua whimpers around Minghao’s thumb, still staring down the bridge of his nose into Minghao’s eyes, eager and hungry, a cat about to get his milk. He’s about to slip his thumb out but Joshua is fast and wraps his fingers around Minghao’s wrist, keeping him there, not done at all. Heady smoke and heat curls in the pit of his stomach and Minghao gives a lazy roll of his hips and Joshua grips tighter. 

Minghao settles one palm on the knees bracketing his hips and drags them up the denim on Joshua’s thighs, hot and purposeful, and back down again. He trails one hand behind Joshua, dancing his fingers underneath the patterned button-up, up along the notches of his spine. His fingers fit so neatly, so perfectly, in the valleys of his vertebrae, and Joshua sighs, honey sweet and syrupy, and Minghao dares to let himself think that he was made to hold Joshua like this. 

Joshua’s grip on his wrist loosens and he takes his thumb out from Joshua’s mouth, the orange sun glinting off the tiny string of spit connecting Joshua’s lolling tongue to his thumb. He smears it along Joshua’s lower lip, another syrupy sigh, and it’s not Impressionist brushwork. Monet has never come close to capturing anything like Joshua Hong, blissed out and heavy in his lap. 

He plucks the joint out from where it’s been slowly burning between Joshua’s fingers forgotten, and brings it up to his mouth, smug and satisfied to watch Joshua track the motion with his eyes, mouth still open and pouty. He inhales deep. He revels in the almost too hot burn of the smoke filling his lungs. He holds it there-- holds the smoke in deep like the truths he holds close to his chest, the words Joshua and him never actually say, keeps it there so he doesn’t cough out smoke like confessions. 

But, Joshua snatches the joint out of his mouth, rubs the smoking end out on the back of the front seat, and hooks his fingers underneath the bandana tied around Minghao’s neck and tugs him up against his chest. 

Finally, lips meet lips, weighty smoke spilling out between peony petals, and the wishbone is in two, the larger piece in Joshua’s hands. It’s languid, molasses slow, but Minghao sighs into Joshua’s mouth, easy, and Joshua drinks down his sighs, purposeful and tucking them away behind his teeth, and pulls the bandana tauter around Minghao’s neck, no choice but to let Joshua take and take and he wishes he was afraid of how happy he is to give and give. 

Joshua smirks against his lips, tongue teasing and coy, at how pliant Minghao is underneath him. Minghao wishes he had it in him to be ashamed, how simple it is to lay limbs akimbo, held up only by the kerchief around his neck. Joshua trails a thumb under the bandana against his Adam’s apple, follows the movement of Minghao gulping. 

They’re pressed so close, dried calendula against daffodil in between book pages, and Minghao wants to latch onto Joshua’s neck, nibble and lick at his Adam’s apple, taste something forbidden. And so he does, opens his lips against the nook of Joshua’s shoulder and neck, teeth grazing against the hollows of his collarbones. Joshua keens out a whine, sounding something like _baby_ as Minghao moves up the column of his throat. Warmth surges through Minghao’s body at that, and he rolls up his hips again, the friction not nearly enough, even with Joshua rocking down to meet him.

He loses himself in Joshua’s sway, places purposefully chaste kisses next to his Adam’s apple, sweat salty and between kisses he mumbles _baobei_ _baobei baobei_ and suddenly, Joshua is letting go of his bandana. Minghao feels lost at sea, suddenly untethered and buoying aimlessly, until hands are shoving his cardigan off with a soft chant of _off off off._

The cardigan comes off, acrylic wool sticking itchy in the crooks of his elbows, but then Minghao hands come up to trace the slope of Joshua’s chest as it heaves, twisting the gold chain around his neck, trails along his exposed shoulder, while Joshua looks down at Minghao expectantly. 

“Call me that again,” Joshua says, breathless and a little out of body, as Minghao’s fingers work to unbutton the rest of Joshua’s shirt and push it off. He’s filled out more and more since Minghao started his residency six months ago, going from birch stick thin and soft to whipcord strong and broad. There was guilt, initially, in the way he’d stare down Joshua’s back and how it tapered into a tiny waist, but after he noticed Minghao looking and quirked a tiny tongue out half-grin at him, the shirts got more tailored and he started a lollipop habit.

“Hm, what? You mean _baobei_?” Minghao teases coolly, and grins up when Joshua sighs and rocks down again, but Minghao pulls his hips down lower into the cushioning on the backseat of this Jeep, keeping Joshua away from the friction he’s seeking, flint missing stone. There’s a hitch in breath, a desperate whine, and then there’s a finger hooked underneath his bandana again. Minghao wishes he didn’t like getting tugged around as much as he is. 

But there’s satisfaction in knowing how nicely carmine and gold go together and how Joshua can’t seem to help but be tied to him somehow. Minghao likes that. He likes that a lot and settles into the satisfaction, curled up like a cat finding a patch of sunlight.

Joshua brings their mouths together again, parting and sighing and licking in and Minghao follows in lead, bandana digging into the nape of his neck, reveling in the burn of it, making his cock twitch. This time, Minghao is the one whining into Joshua’s mouth, bucking his hips up, desperate to get any sort of touch, but Joshua tuts. He pulls himself up and away from Minghao, and Minghao stays suspended by his kerchief, Joshua’s marionette. 

Minghao, smoky and hazy and wanting, gently surges forward, moves to gather Joshua in his arms, wanting to feel his hands bracket and wrap around his lollipop stick waist, but Joshua leans back out of his reach, one hand still grasping his bandana and one arm keeping him balanced against the seat flat between Minghao’s legs. 

All Minghao wants is to make a monument out of Joshua’s neck and chest, bite lipstick kiss bruises onto his granite stone breast bone and whisper prayers and poems into him, a testament of devotion. But Joshua hovers his hips above his, hard cock pressing firm against the front of his black jeans, coy and sly. 

“No touching,” he says, licking his lips. And after a lifetime spent walking down atriums full of sculptures in the open air, resisting the urge to graze his fingers against marble, wanting more than anything to feel the bumps and spikes of century old oil paint swirled on canvas, Minghao knows how to follow that maxim. 

So Minghao let’s his limbs loosen, strings slackened, and basks in how Joshua is abashedly tracing his eyes all over Minghao’s body, using the kerchief to tilt Minghao’s neck up and back. 

“Fuck, you’re so beautiful, Hao,” he says, breathless, a little full of wonder and Minghao’s ears go bright red, unable to hear Joshua’s praise without his entire body flushing warm. 

Joshua lets go of his bandana and Minghao free falls, head heavy against the window. He’s so hard just from letting Joshua tug him around, absolutely desperate to get away from decisions for once. 

Joshua eyes his torso, and drags his hands up under Minghao’s white t-shirt, his long fingers and hot palms feel up the divots and angles of the slight definition he has on his abs, over his chest, thumb dragging and swirling over one nipple and Minghao’s breath staccatos in time with the piano rock looping over the speakers. 

Joshua keeps sliding his hands up sweat sticky skin until the shirt is gathered around his wrists and he’s pulling it up over Minghao's head, ruffling his hair. Minghao shuts his eyes and lifts his arms up so Joshua can continue, but Joshua stops short at his wrists. Eyelids fluttering open, he takes in Joshua’s conniving expression. Buried treasure, grand theft auto, elaborate sting operation, Minghao will follow whatever Joshua plans. 

Joshua licks his lips, round like he’s swirling his tongue around a cherry-red lollipop watching Minghao fling paint across canvas in the studio, and pulls the shirt the rest of the way up with one hand and grasps both of Minghao’s wrists loosely up against the roof and handle of the car in the other.

“Can you keep your hands up like this? Is that okay? Just want you to relax, wanna take care of you,” Joshua leans in to ask, antique lace delicate and desperate, against Minghao’s lips. In response, Minghao languidly presses that extra millimeter closer, kisses Joshua deeply and tugs his bottom lip between his teeth, pulling Joshua around for once. 

“Yeah, yeah, that’s so okay, anything you want, baobei,” Minghao says, breathless. Another lofty moan escapes Joshua’s mouth, shameless and Minghao settles in the delight of Joshua melting in his lap at the slightest pet name.

The weed thick and lazy smoke that clouded them earlier is gone and Minghao sees Joshua with clarity, wine purple bruises darkening along his collarbones, the lithe and strong arms, defined chest rising and falling, tiny fucking waist, with a trail of dark hair leading underneath the waistband of his jeans. It’s a bacchanal and Minghao is drinking in the sight of Joshua, long sips taken from a kylix. 

The sun is low in the desert sky now, oranges traded for magenta and purples, and Minghao curls his fingers around the handle on the ceiling, purposeful and ready like the first paintbrush picked up of the day. 

“No touching, remember. Keep your hands there,” Joshua reminds, fox sly and teasing again, as he scoots back to plant a foot in the footwell of the backseat. He’s supposed to be relaxing, letting Joshua do all the work, but there’s an electrical fire sparking on the surface of his skin as Joshua gets his fingers under the waistband of his jeans, and unbuttons them, and unzips the fly with poise. Fingertips graze featherlight against his clothed dick and Minghao keens, gripping the handle tighter. Don’t touch the art. 

He rolls his hips up, trying to get more of Joshua’s hand on his cock, but Joshua pulls his hand away, thumb sliding across the already damp spot on the front of his boxer briefs. A man starved, Minghao whines. 

“Shh, give me a second, Hao,” Joshua soothes, and peels Minghao’s jeans off of him and then do the same to himself. They’re in the backseat of Jeep, and it’s fawn legged tangled and goofy trying to maneuver pants removal but they make it work. There’s a break in the dry desert air, for them to laugh about how teenage it all is, fucking in the backseat of a car. 

But then, they’re both naked, ochre against ochre, a perfect fit, canyons and valleys, and Joshua laughs into Minghao’s mouth and they grin against one another, a bouquet of petals, a flower on a desert succulent. 

Minghao’s cock lays heavy against his stomach, flushed ruddy, a satin shiny smear of come feels cool against his desert hot skin and all he wants is for Joshua to touch him, anywhere, let Joshua cover his entire body like waves crashing on the shoreline. 

Joshua thighs strain around Minghao’s to keep himself hovering above him and finally, wraps a palm around Minghao’s dick and Minghao swears he sees constellations. It’s a loose grip, but Joshua strokes with purpose, up with a flick of his wrist and back down, taking care swiping his thumb across Minghao’s slit to ease the drag of his dry palm. A firmer upstroke and Minghao tries to tamp down a moan, head falling back against the back window again. 

Fingers underneath the red bandana that Joshua pointedly left on, and Minghao is pulled forward. Joshua kisses him once, twice and strokes his cock in quick succession and Minghao chokes down a whimper.

“Hao, Hao, Hao, I wanna hear you, wanna know you feel good, can you do that for me?” he whispers against Minghao’s lips, and tears prick the corners of Minghao’s eyes. It’s so, so good. Joshua’s warm skin and warm heart overwhelming in the lingering daytime heat when all Minghao wants to do is _touch_. The hand of his cock slows, not giving him the friction and speed he wants. Joshua gazes at him expectantly, eyes unwavering.

“Yeah. Yeah, I can do that,” Minghao breathes out, a new truism sticking the roof of his mouth, and nods, Joshua gives him a wide grin in return and unhooks his fingers from the bandana, tracing his hand back down to Minghao’s pelvic bone, and starts to stroke Minghao’s cock with renewed purpose and vigor.

Finally, Joshua lets himself fall into Minghao’s lap, again, his cock dragging velvet against Minghao’s hip, the closest Minghao has gotten to feeling Joshua’s cock for himself. His dick twitches in Joshua’s hand at the sensation, bucking up into the tight first, nudging to feel the slide of Joshua’s cock again. 

There’s heat pooling in his gut, in the base of his spine, and he keens out a whine. And he’s so close, so embarrassingly close just from a hand on his dick and words and a pretty boy in his lap. He’s babbling now, English entirely forgotten, as Joshua times his strokes with a grind of his cock into Minghao’s hip and Joshua swallows down his words with messy kisses and sighs, his turn to sip from the kylix. 

They rock and move together, paint mixing on a palette, until Minghao gasps out, “Baobei, I’m close,” and Joshua moans out in acknowledgement and loosens his hand around Minghao’s cock. Minghao immediately misses the touch, like the sun misses the flower. Joshua’s still his lap, their cocks brushing together, Minghao’s hips twitching and seeking out friction, but now Joshua’s leaning down to sift through the Christmas cookie tin and plucking out the tube of lube. Minghao laughed at it earlier, but he’s never been more thankful than right now. The expression on his face must be funny because Joshua rights himself back up and says “What? I was a Boy Scout. Always be prepared.” and a laugh bubbles up out of his throat. 

Minghao likes that they can still laugh and joke like this in the middle of fucking in the desert in the back of Joshua’s jeep. That even under the veil of hazy weed smoke and the dryness of the desert heat, they’re still them. They’re still the Joshua who brings Minghao green tea in the mornings at the studio and the Minghao who slinks into Joshua’s office off the lobby, fiddling with the figurines and trinkets lining his desk like a cat on a kitchen table, and doodling Goku and Piccolo on post-its when the crease between Joshua’s brows gets too deep from writing gallery placards and exhibition descriptions. 

It’s just different now seeing Joshua’s fingers slicked up with lube, moving back to stretch himself open for Minghao, instead of seeing those fingers stained with errant blobs of paint from not being careful in Minghao’s studio. Joshua’s breath catches as one finger presses into his hole and Minghao wishes it were him, coaxing the little sighs and whimpers out of Joshua, but instead he will look on. 

“Can you take another?” Minghao asks, transfixed on the Bacchus above him, and Joshua half-grins, tongue flicking out, upper lip bitten puffy, and adds another. With every grind down of Joshua’s hips onto his fingers, his cock catches against Minghao’s and he hisses, grips the handle tighter. There’s a burn in his arms from keeping them up so long, but he refuses to give in. He adds a third, there’s a pinch look on his face, and Minghao reassures and coaxes Joshua with a “You’re doing so good, baobei, so, so good. God, look you, Caravaggio wishes he could paint something like you, you’re gonna feel so good around me,” and Joshua moans louder and louder with every praise that falls out of Minghao’s mouth.

Finally, Joshua removes his fingers and aligns Minghao’s cock to his hole, like stars linking together Orion’s belt and then he sinks down, slow like oil-paint drying, onto Minghao’s cock, eyelashes fluttering but never shutting all the way, just so he can marvel down at Minghao beneath him. 

Joshua is hot and tight and Minghao wants so desperately to just grab Joshua the hips, press bruises the shape of his fingers into the skin, and fuck up into him, get Joshua to go slack, head thrown back, the setting sun dappling his throat and chest stained glass reds and purples, and whisper his name over and over like a prayer, but he can’t touch, not the art, not the relics. 

He’s wanton dizzy and the vice-like grip he has on the handle only tightens as Joshua lifts up and sinks down, a boat riding the waves of Minghao’s body. Joshua’s head is thrown back, hands planted on the back of the seats, whimpering every time the tip of Minghao’s dick catches his rim. Minghao tries not to move his hips in time with Joshua’s, relax back and let Joshua do whatever he wants, like he always does, always easy to say yes to him. Just let Joshua take and take, but Joshua’s breaths hips start stuttering uneven and messy. He slumps forward and stretches his hands up to Minghao’s wrists, sliding them up until he’s prying Minghao’s whiteknuckle grip loose and intertwines their fingers together, sailor’s knots tight, so he’s the mast holding up Minghao’s sails. 

Gust-like energy spiriting him, Minghao bends his knees and plants his feet into the leather of the backseat, and bucks his cock up into Joshua. The grasp on his fingers and hands remains stalwart and tight, but the rest of Joshua has gone boneless and loose-limbed, giving into the frenzy of the Bacchanalia and Minghao can finally be the one to make Joshua feel good. 

The gold chain around Joshua’s neck clips Minghao’s cheek with every thrust until Joshua relaxes further, pressing their foreheads together, and kisses Minghao. Joshua bounces on Minghao’s cock and Minghao uses all his strength to fuck up into Joshua. 

He angles his dick differently and Joshua shouts, blissed out and spent, but grinds his hips down to meet Minghao’s, forcing Minghao to hit that spot over and over again. Joshua captures Minghao’s mouth again, licks in, messy and spit slick, as he tightens the knots of his fingers. A rougher thrust, the sweetest whine, and Joshua is coming between them, pearlescent on Minghao’s abs. 

He slumps against Minghao’s torso and with the energy he has left, bites and kisses Minghao’s neck. He continues to thrust into Joshua, lazier less frenzied than before, Joshua’s whines of overstimulation slowing him, until white hot pressure builds in Minghao’s groin, and he swiftly pulls out of Joshua, and comes, fingers knotted in Joshua’s like a promise. 

They still, parentheses curving in on each other, breathing into their burst grape bruised necks, and finally, _finally_ , Joshua let’s go of Minghao’s hands and they fall to gather Joshua up in his arms. 

Heartbeat against heartbeat in the desert night, sticky and come drying gesso like between them, Minghao sighs. Happy. 

A curve of a smirk splays across Minghao’s breastbone.

“Relaxed?” 

“Yeah, thank you. I feel like a fucking empty paint tube,” Minghao says, fingers twirling Joshua’s hair. Crickets tune up for their evening performance and the piano rock loops again for the second time. 

“So, where does this leave us?” Joshua asks, turning his head away from Minghao’s shoulders to look him in the eye.

“I’m worried that the visitors will spend too much time looking at the work of art on my arm rather than my stuff on the walls,” Minghao responds, his turn to be coy and teasing. Smirking a bit, trying to keep his eyes away from Joshua’s big, sparkling ones, but darts to look down anyway. Joshua stares at him in disbelief.

“That was so fucking cheesy,” he laughs out. 

“So you’ll be my date to the opening?” Minghao asks, eyebrow raised, hope sitting high in his throat.

“Yes, and to the openings after this too.”

**Author's Note:**

> half the time my brain was just [lemon demon voice] TWO JEEPS HAVING SEX TWO JEEPS HAVING SEX MY MUSCLES MY MUSCLE THEY INVOLUNTARILY FLEX as i was writing this
> 
> also [here's what](https://open.spotify.com/album/7gfFEfHxjkmy6sP1fhLaJM?si=hxG5_rqWRZWiW6OjO5byHg) joshua made them listen to on loop while they were doing the horizontal hula in the backseat of his stupid jeep
> 
> [twit](https://www.twitter.com/skateboardachoo)


End file.
